


Twenty Five Percent.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: James Bond (Movies)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, I blame tumblr for this, M/M, One Shot, Post Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bond kisses him, the inside of Q’s mouth is almost immediately coated in the thickness of whiskey and blood and he isn't sure if that’s a taste he’s supposed to be used to.</p>
<p>Post-Skyfall, no real spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Five Percent.

**Author's Note:**

> I completely and utterly blame tumblr for this. And Skyfall of course, for being a totally brilliant movie. xo.

He wakes up with scrambled letters imprinted on his forehead and the smell of iron thick in his nostrils. Q Branch is dark, lit only by his laptop screen, which is enough to reveal the outline of a man sitting at the table with him, head bowed, breathing audible in the nearly silent room. 

Iron, gunpowder and aftershave. There’s only one person with that scent that visits him.

“What have you done now, 007?” he murmurs, blinking away sleep from his eyes. He’s so used to waking up with florescent glare in his face that the light from his screen barely bothers him, but the fact that his glasses have vanished is rather perturbing. 

“The usual.” Bond passes him his glasses and when his hand fully enters the light, it’s dark with congealed blood. Q knows that approximately seventy five percent of it will belong to others; he’s been able to come up with a rough estimate, based on the DNA samples he’s taken on the blood he too regularly washes off of Bond’s fists. 

But still. That leaves twenty-five percent as his own. That figure worries him more than it has any right to. 

“Is there honestly no one in medical right now?” It would take only a few keystrokes for him to contact one of their doctors but instead, with some quick typing, he brings the lights up a little, just enough so that he can see Bond’s face, which is a little better off than his hands. His nose may be slightly more crooked but Q isn't entirely sure. There's a long cut running beside it and a large bruise has started to form on his right cheekbone but otherwise, Q has seen Bond in much worse shape. 

“Oh, probably,” Bond replies, scratching at one of his fingers. The action causes the table to be speckled with red flakes of blood. “But I believe they have a policy about stitching agents up after a bar fight.” The words make Q stop and inhale and sure enough, underneath the combined smells that he’s come to associate with Bond, there’s the vulgar stench of whiskey, again. He wonders what set the agent off this time. Had some American insulted the Queen again? Had some drunken idiot dared to mention the words MI6 and _incompetence_ in the same sentence? Hell, had someone looked at him wrong? 

Q doesn't inquire out loud. He doesn't say _anything_ ; he’s already said it all on the eleven occasions Bond has shown up in the middle of the night, when he knew Q was alone, needing to be both stitched and sobered up. Now, he just gets up and finds the tiny first aid kit he’d borrowed (so he says; Bond says stolen) from the medical branch. There's hydrogen peroxide in a cabinet in the bathroom but once he passes the table again, he doesn't think he’ll need it. 

Bond has seemingly conjured a bottle of whiskey out of nowhere and is leaning back in his chair, sipping it thoughtfully, staring at nothing in particular. Q doesn't like when Bond gets like this, totally disconnected from reality. He hardly notices when Q snatches the bottle out of his hands, probably under the assumption that Q wants a sip of the foul stuff as well. 

He _does_ notice when Q takes the bottle and tips it onto his hands, soaking Bond’s rumpled suit trousers as well. 

“Christ!” The word seems far too loud in the room and for a brief second, Q suspects that someone is going to pop out of a cupboard and ask what the hell he was doing to MI6’s top agent. He knew he’d be able to talk his way out of things but that didn't meant he _wanted_ to do it. 

But there was no one else there. Just Q and the humming of his machines and 007, alone like always. 

“Oh for God’s sake Bond, it can’t be that bad,” he mutters. He's seen what Bond has gone through in the field. He's seen the knife scars and bullet wounds, examined them up close. He's picked glass out of Bond's cheek with nary a sound but disinfectant of any kind always makes him hiss. He actually finds it rather amusing but, of course, he never says that to the man who could kill him in at least one hundred different ways. Instead, he continues his work, taking a rag out of the first aid kit and wiping away both the alcohol and blood. For once, the cuts are all shallow and won't need stitches, which he is thankful for. 

“Besides, I’ve always wanted to do that,” he says as he finishes with Bond's hands. The bottle is almost empty but Q puts it out of Bond's reach, just in case. 

“Bet you have, you sadistic bugger.” Despite the joke, Bond’s voice is quiet, weary. Q’s pretty certain that he’s one of the only people in MI6 who have received the privilege of witnessing their top agent almost near rock bottom. He isn't sure if it's a privilege he appreciates or loathes. It's easier to not think about it in depth. 

“There, you’re fixed up,” he says, ignoring Bond’s comment and dabbing slightly at the cut on his nose. “As for your trousers, there’s a spare pair in my locker.” Bond just stares at him for a long time, those steely blue eyes fixed on him, poker face giving nothing away. Not that it matters; Q has been in this position enough times to know exactly what Bond is thinking or, at the very least, what he’s about to do. 

His stomach is churning in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the frankly overwhelming smell of alcohol. 

When Bond kisses him, the inside of Q’s mouth is almost immediately coated in the thickness of whiskey and blood and he isn't sure if that’s a taste he’s supposed to be used to. But now, he practically welcomes it, letting Bond lick his way into his mouth, letting his scarred fingers wrap around his tie and pull him closer. For a brief moment, Q considers accessing the internet and ordering a cot because frankly, the table is starting to get a little old but when Bond’s calloused palms go under his cardigan and press against his spine, he murmurs _sod it_ and digs his fingers into Bond’s shoulders, holding on for dear life. 

Q knows why Bond does this. He knows that it isn't because he has any feelings for him that go beyond the strictly physical. He knows that it’s because of the drink and the unresolved issues that he won’t let MI6’s psychiatrists anywhere near. He knows that he’s really just an ineffective crutch for a wounded man and he knows that one day, he isn't going to be okay fulfilling that role any longer.

But until that point, if it stops Bond from drinking, even if it’s only for an hour, he’ll do it. If it stops him from sleeping with strange, dangerous women, if it means that only a quarter of the blood on his hands is his own, if Bond continues to let him kiss back, he’ll do it. 

For Queen and country, after all.


End file.
